


Every Devil Needs His Angel

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e05 "Coquilles", First Time, Graphic Descriptions of Gore (Brief), Hallucinations, I needed to write this ok, Kinda, Low Self-Esteem, M/M, Nervousness Before Sex, dark!Will, first kill, there's literally no way Budish strung himself up like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 03:41:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6313960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eliot Budish did not kill himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Devil Needs His Angel

The door closed behind Will and he sagged against it.

_What the fuck am I doing?_

He pulled off his shirt as he walked to the bed and folded it after a second of deliberation, placing it on the bedside table. Something told him that Hannibal would appreciate the action. He watched his left hand, ever an indicator of stability, shake against the flannel.

 _You’re making rash decisions._ Alana’s voice firmly reminded him as he pulled his pants off, folded them too. He’d never heard her say those words. _You need to slow down and think about this, Will._ But Alana wasn’t there, and she’d lost the right to give him advice about his personal life when she’d proved herself unable to see him as a person instead of a case study.

The rug was laundered and expensive under Will’s feet. The room was too surreal, too perfect, too symmetrical; he remembered the theories about the state of one’s bedroom and what it said about psychological states.

_A perfect room betrays a demented mind._

He ran his hands over his abdomen. Slightly soft from a poor diet, which was peculiar when coupled with his ribs, too prominent under his skin. He was starving himself, somehow unable to die. Living on and on, in a purgatory of nightmares and crappy American food, too cowardly to use the gun on himself and not on Stammets’ ghost. He was surprised the Mushroom Maker was absent, actually; the room was clean, perfect, and weirdly so. His attention returned to his body, and he saw an image of himself hovering with stupid reluctance in the full length mirror by the dresser. There was shape to him, but neglect made him older. He had once been youthful, bright-eyed, adored as a strange silent creature with curly hair. He looked at himself, and he felt used. Broken. His beauty had passed its used-by date.

Old stock.

He wondered whether Hannibal would want him. The tired part of him- most of him, then- admitted he would take what he could get. He was used to seeing disgust in his lovers’ eyes.

Will tried not to think about the fact that seeing disgust in Hannibal’s eyes would truly nail the coffin on his misery.

He looked at the clock and realised he’d been standing there for seven minutes. He glanced down at his underwear but the thought of taking it off and being naked when Hannibal, fully dressed, walked in, made him sick with embarrassment. He lay down, hands by his side. Hands behind his head. Hands back at his side, legs crossed. Legs uncrossed, hands folded on his stomach.

 _This is how corpses lay down._ A pause, as he realised what he’d just thought. _God, I need to get out more._

He settled for sitting up and putting his head in his hands in the usual expression of self-doubt.

_What am I doing?_

The door clicked open.

Will’s fear surged back with ferocity, hitting him and leaving him trembling.

_I can’t do this._

But Hannibal was smiling. Those understanding eyes.

“You’re nervous.”

Coming from anyone else, it would sound like stating the obvious. Will laughed quietly, but it was a plea for air. He hunched forward and crossed his arms in front of his stomach, in case his legs weren’t enough to hide his emancipated form. He felt ugly, and knew Hannibal would was seeing his too sharp shoulders and jutting collarbones.

“You didn’t,” Will rasped, clearing his throat, “You didn’t answer my question.”

Will heard the gentle rustling of fabric. “What question?”

“Does it change anything? Now that you know I’ve never…” _Never fucked a man, never been fucked, oh god, fill me up, fill me up and make me feel safe-_ “…never had sex with a man before?”

There was a pause, and Will pressed his face into his knees until he saw colours.

“Look at me Will.”

Will looked up. The first few buttons of Hannibal’s shirt were undone, and he was smiling again.

“Do you think it would change anything?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Will sucked in a breath as Hannibal sat on the edge of the bed. The anxiety was hot inside him. “I just- I need you, I need this and I just need to know that you’re not going to regret this if I-”

Hannibal kissed him.

A dry, gentle thing. Neither of them moved. Will could taste Hannibal’s breath.

 _He’s brushed his teeth._ Will distantly observed.

“We don’t have to do this, Will. Not if you’re unsure.”

Will swallowed, closed his eyes. Turned his head, and their noses bumped. Lips met gently, carefully.

“I need this.”

“I know.”

Will opened his mouth wider, kissed harder. Too much adrenaline, too much fear, to be still. God, he’d missed kissing. It was so soft, so silken. Hannibal’s teeth pulled gently on his bottom lip and it was the right mix of hard and soft.

“As long as you don’t feel pressured.” Hannibal’s fingers rose to undo his perfectly ironed shirt, and Will’s hands fumbled to help.

“I don’t know what I feel.”

Hannibal held his hands still and kissed him harder. Will let himself be held, let himself be kissed. His legs slid down, guided by Hannibal’s steady hand.

“Are you afraid of me, Will?” Hannibal pulled off his shirt and it disappeared over the side of the bed. Will was somewhat disappointed to see his efforts to be neat were unappreciated.

“No.” It wasn’t a lie.

Hannibal moved on top of him, and the weight was solid and real and Will couldn’t remember a time he was ever so present. Everything was so warm, and he stared up in awe as Hannibal’s fringe fell onto his forehead. Hannibal’s half-open eyes gazed back, calm as ever. He was the immovable object, the bedrock Jack could never be, the stability that would forever hold out against Will’s chaos and movement.

“Do you want me to be?”

Hannibal smirked at the honest curiosity in his voice. “No.”

Will gasped as Hannibal leaned forward and pressed against him. Will pushed back as he kissed Hannibal, but it was staccato, unsteady; his hips stuttering, unsure, desperate. Hannibal’s hips against his own, slow, moving without any of the panicked rush Will felt. He reached up to hold Hannibal, arms around his back, arching upwards, he remembered this dance-

And his fingers cut through skin, dragged deep enough to rub against bone, the stench of blood filling his head.

“Save me.”

Will froze.

That wasn’t Hannibal’s voice.

When Hannibal leaned back, it wasn’t Hannibal anymore.

Elliot Budish looked down at him, all pale skin and pitch hair, eyes as dark as the bottom of the ocean. His hands were on Will’s shoulders, gripping, and Will closed his eyes.

 _This isn’t happening._ He tried to bring back the symmetrical room, the perfect man he had been kissing, but Budish smelt like sickness and Will opened his eyes and saw the inside of a barn. It was sunset, and the sky’s bright glare made imprints on his eyes when he looked away. Budish was wearing tan pants and a cornflower blue shirt. Remnants of a normal life.

“Save me.” Eliot whimpered. A scalpel gleamed in his shaking white fist. “I know you can. Please-”

“No.” He turned his head to the side, but his back was against the wall of the barn and there was no escaping. His fingers scrabbled for purchase, trying to find the softness of sheets. Hay stuck into his hand. “No. I’m with Hannibal, you’re not real-”

“You need to save me. You need to. You _need_ to. It’s the only way you can save yourself and kill the demons inside of you-”

“No, please-”

“Will?”

“Stop it, just stop it, you’re not real-”

“Will, what are you seeing? Will?”

“Stop it, _stop it, please!”_

“Will.” That accent. That voice. “Will, it is nine twenty seven in the evening and you are in Baltimore, Maryland. Will? You’re in my bedroom, do you remember?”

“Hannibal?” Will asked. He kept his eyes closed, head turned to the side. Breaths hissing in and out, too fast.

“Look at me.”

“No, no-”

His hand was encircled in a gentle grip, and his fingers were lifted to touch against a face. A cheekbone, the slide of a jaw.

“It’s me, Will. You’re alright.”

His fingers were guided to a mouth, to soft lips.

“You’re safe, William.” The lips moved with that accent, and Will almost believed those words.

Almost.

“Is he there? Is he there?”

“Who, Will?”

Will breathed in and out slowly.

“Will?”

The name was on his tongue when his eyes shot open; Hannibal _couldn’t_ know about Budish, what was he thinking?!

Hannibal regarded him with concern, but he was- as ever- calm. Will pulled his hand away from Hannibal’s grip, breath rattling behind his ribcage like the audible panic of a trapped bird. Blood on his hands. Blood under his fingernails. He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see the worry in Hannibal’s eyes.

“Will?”

“I’m sorry.” Hannibal wasn’t disappointed or admonishing, but Will hated this. “I’m sorry- I want to, I want _you,_ I do, but… But I _can’t._ ”

The sound of movement, and then the gentle touch of lips on Will’s cheek.

“It’s alright.” His voice was tender, caring, soft. Will swallowed thickly around his shame, shook his head and stood, allowing himself only to look at the floor, at his feet, as he reached for his clothes. In his peripheral vision, he saw Hannibal pulling on a dressing gown.

The silence as they dressed was awkward and Will detested every second of it, until Hannibal spoke;

“Would you like a coffee? Or tea?”

Will gritted his teeth as he pulled on his shirt. “No, thank you.” Hannibal was trying so hard for him.

 _Why?!_ He wanted to scream. _Why do you still care?_

“Perhaps something stronger?”

“No, I- I better go.”

He ran out of the room. Tried to convince himself it was better this way; if Hannibal knew what he’d done, if he knew Will had sliced Budish’s back and strung him up like a puppet…

It’d be over.

 

***

 

Hannibal watched Will go. It wasn’t until the profiler was gone that he allowed the concerned, worried façade to melt away, replaced by a wide smile and bright eyes.

He’d followed Will that night. Seen what he did- and did _well,_ with hands new to killing, but with a mind that was fluent in murder. Budish had clung to him. Looked up at him like he was an angel- and, standing there, bloody shirt half undone, breaths coming hard and heavy, black curled hair slick wild and mussed, he had looked like an angel. A vengeful cherub, beautiful and corrupted. A righteous killer.

Hannibal looked down, confirmed what he already knew; he wanted this angel all to himself, in a way he hadn’t wanted anyone for a very, very long time. It wasn’t just a desire- it was a _hunger,_ a ravenous thing that clawed at his stomach and whispered in his ear, threading heat through his every thought, pooling molten _want_ in his stomach. Every time Will came to a session, sleeves rolled up, forearms revealed, Hannibal imagined those arms stained with blood.

He longed for this man.

And he would stop at nothing to have him.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, Hanni. You manipulative doucheface.


End file.
